White House.”
Palmer’s grin was genuine. “
Lev shook his head. “Oh, you’ll get there, Senator. You have what it takes and this country needs you.”
“I appreciate your endorsement, but I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it up to the voters.”
Both men chuckled. Then the chief of staff rose. “You’d better get some rest, Senator. It’s going to be a long day.”
A billowing cloud of powdery dust followed the lumbering semi as it crawled up the slight incline. With each pit and bump of the rough, unpaved road, the trailer the truck hauled shuddered and boomed hollowly, rocking back and forth so violently it seemed poised to tip over at any moment. At the top of the hillock, the narrow path ended at a pair of eight-foot wooden doors adorned with curls of rusty barbed wire. Above the weathered gate the faded BIG DEAN’S sign was topped by a crudely rendered image of smiling cowboy tipping his broad brimmed hat.
The driver hardly slackened his pace as he approached the barrier. Instead, the truck’s roar shook a pair of sun-browned workers in greasy overalls out of a dilapidated, sun-bleached shed. They loped to the gates, one lifting the latch, the other swinging the rickety doors open. Within a moment, the truck roared through the opening, followed by its cloud of grit and grime.
With a high-pitched squeal the semi braked, sand and gravel crunching under sixteen wheels. The vehicle ground to a halt in the middle of a dusty expanse occupied by the shack, and a battered mobile home with cracked windows resting on gray concrete bricks. The mobile home’s dented sides were flecked with peeling yellow paint.
The driver popped his door just as the persistent plume of dust finally overtook his vehicle. Coughing once, the coyote hopped to the ground and disdainfully kicked the Nevada sand with a booted foot. Tall and rail thin, wearing faded jeans and a red bandana around his throat, the young man had dark hair that stuck out from under the brim of a sweat-stained cowboy hat. Brown face impassive, the human smuggler sauntered to the rear of the vehicle.
As he began to unlock the trailer’s door, three Hispanic men emerged from the dilapidated mobile home on the opposite end of the enclosed lot. The trio were clad in dusty denim and heavy work boots. The two men on either end were well over six feet tall, muscular, with thick necks and shaven heads, dotted with stubble. The man in the middle was shorter than the others, and had a full head of brown, curly hair. Mirrored sunglasses covered his eyes. Each man cradled an AK–47 in the crook of his arm.
If the presence of automatic weapons troubled the coyote, he didn’t show it. With an air of tedious routine, the man unlatched the steel door on the back of the trailer and swung it open. Eyes to the ground, he stepped back to allow the newcomers unobstructed access to the cargo inside.
Five men emerged from inside the cavernous trailer, blinking against the harsh desert sun. They wore worn work clothes and were armed like the others, their assault rifles slung over their shoulders, next to heavy backpacks. Joints stuff, muscles sore, the men slowly and silently climbed down from the trailer. Only one man out of the group approached the armed trio. Without preamble he hugged the man in the middle, muttering quietly in Spanish. The two stood in the sun, arms looped around each other’s necks, heads bowed, foreheads together like boxers who’d just finished a grueling match.
While the reunion took place, the coyote crossed the enclosure to a rusty faucet sticking out of the ground next to the ramshackle hut. He slipped a canteen from his belt, turned on the tap, and filled the aluminum container. Moving quietly past the others, he jumped into the dark trailer.
“Where is he going?” the man with the sunglasses asked, finally breaking the embrace.
“We were not alone,” the other man replied. “There are more people inside the truck. A banker, his wife, and their child. He’s a businessman…
The man with the sunglasses moved between the others, to peer into the darkened trailer. He saw a man in a tailored suit, now dirty and travel worn. The man’s eyes were large and nervous, his tie loose around a flabby neck. He squatted on the metal floor, a prominent gut hanging over his belt. A woman rested on her knees beside him. With the hem of her dress, the woman was brushing dirt off the pudgy face of a five-year-old girl, still sluggish from sleep. The man and wife viewed the armed men warily, while pretending indifference.
While the man with the sunglasses watched, the coyote offered the family his canteen. The businessman waved it away, still staring at the strangers through the open door. The woman took a few sips, then helped the little girl quench her thirst.
Sunglasses sneered. “This flesh smuggler had specific instructions. He was very well compensated to ferry you and your men across the border.
The other nodded once. “He told me this… this banker paid more money than we did. He said if he was leaving anyone behind, it was us. In any case, it was too late to haggle. I thought it best to deal with the problem on this end…”
“And so we shall,” Sunglasses said. Stepping back, he raised his right hand and gestured the two bodyguards forward.
“Use your weapons. Deal with them,” he commanded.
Before anyone could register shock, the two men raised their AK–47s and threw the safeties. The woman inside the trailer jumped at the sound. The coyote whirled to face them.
The quiet desert suddenly erupted with the chattering bark of twin assault rifles. The long, sustained sound seemed magnified by the trailer’s hollow interior, echoing back at the shooters in waves of booming sound. Only when the banana-shaped clips were empty did the men stop firing. The abrupt silence was nearly as jarring as the explosion of noise that preceded it.
The man with the sunglasses turned his back on the carnage, focused his mirrored stare on one of the men who’d opened the gate.
“Bury them in the desert,” he said.
Then the man with the sunglasses turned and led the newcomers to the dusty mobile home.
3. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 P.M. AND 3 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME
The woman beside him stirred. Jack Bauer opened his eyes, instantly alert. A dark cloud was spread across the pillow beside him; and then he remembered.
He’d drifted off, gazing at the ebony hair of Stella Hawk, but thinking — and dreaming — of his wife. It was a vision from a long time ago. He was surfing a shimmering aqua ocean, the sun-washed beach gleaming white. Teri sat on the sand, laughing with her art crowd friends around a small bonfire, her body taut in a wetsuit, waiting for Jack to give her that promised surf lesson. He did… and, later that night, they’d made love for the first time.
Jack lay motionless for a moment, clinging to the vanishing threads of his deeply satisfying dream — only to feel the memory slip away, along with the feeling of contentment it brought him.
He raised his left arm to check the time. In the dim light filtering through the shuttered blinds he almost believed he could still see the faded circle around the third finger of his left hand. Jack immediately shifted his gaze to the illuminated face of the MTM Spec Ops watch. It was just after two o’clock in the afternoon. Forty-two days and seven hours since he’d last been with his wife.
In the beginning, Jack believed this undercover assignment would allow him time to visit his family — a weekend here and there, at the very least. Los Angeles was just a few hours away from Vegas by car, even quicker by plane. And Christopher Henderson agreed that an occasional visit would not jeopardize the success of the mission.
During the first two months, Jack had made several trips to see his family. But each homecoming proved more difficult than the last. There was a world of difference between Jack Bauer, loving husband and father, and the dangerous, violent double-life of Jaycee Jager. To his dismay, Jack discovered that he could not easily bridge that
